


Tentacle Fic 1 in Impregnation Major

by potatobird



Category: Original Work
Genre: (hence the non-con tag), Aphrodisiacs, Belly Kink, Body Horror, Breast Expansion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Forced Pregnancy, Hyper Pregnancy, Hyperpregnancy, Impregnation, Impregnation while sleeping, Mind Control, Other, Pleasurable impregntation, Pregnancy, Pregnant with Monsters, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacle Rape, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, rapid pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29415129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potatobird/pseuds/potatobird
Summary: Premise from one of the Unusual Bearings 2018 tagset:Tentacles Under the Bed impregnate Bed's OccupantExactly what it says it is. Warning for explicit tentacle sex (that cannot be consented to as the impregnatee is asleep) and non-con impregnation.
Relationships: Original Female Character(s)/Original Non-Human Character(s), Original Female Character(s)/Tentacle Monster
Kudos: 169





	Tentacle Fic 1 in Impregnation Major

**Author's Note:**

> Happy uhhhhhhhhh Valentine's Day
> 
> Also for real do not read if you are triggered or upset in any way by non-con, impregnation or pregnancy, or non-con impregnation or pregnancy. Click the back button. Comments are disabled.
> 
> Last warning.

Abbie sinks onto the bed with a sigh. 

It’s been a rough day. Car breaking down, small town, nothing open til tomorrow. It’s a shame, because everything is so _pretty_ out here. 

But also, she can’t get too excited about it, because she’s been out in it all afternoon. 

And, shit, Abbie just wants a familiar bed to sleep in. Ordinarily, this little B&B kind of place she’s snagged for the night would be just the thing—and _god_ , this bed is comfortable. She could almost sink right into it. It feels _homey_. Not some skeazy anonymous Motel 6 off the highway. 

But it’s clearly someone else’s house— _not_ home. Far too neat, well-decorated. The art on the wall matches the heavy, nice wallpaper. The bed is _big_ , king size easily. Four big posts, intricately carved with some kind of winding motif that Abbie’s too tired to make out, and a canopy. She wishes she had the energy to appreciate it more. 

Maybe in the morning. 

She’d just like to be home, is the last thought Abbie thinks as she closes her eyes and lets sleep overtake her.

* * *

After the day she’s had, it’s no surprise she has some weird dreams. Tension, worry, all pent-up inside her, all starting to unspool. 

Yes, she has a sex dream. What about it? 

There’s no visual, but she doesn’t need it. The first phantom touch on her thigh tells her just how _tense_ she’s been all day, and not even realized it. And the touch itself is… everything she needs. It’s body-warm and smooth—silky, even, across the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Almost asking; showing her how tightly wound her body is, and asking if she wants more. 

Abbie feels the tension in her thighs release with a sigh. 

That touch crawls higher, swirling and sliding in a way that feels impossible for a human hand to move—though, maybe a tongue? It’s faintly slick, and leaves a faint trail of that slickness behind. It’s body-hot and feels clean, drying light and almost instantly on her skin. 

It’s a fucking dream, she’s not going to overthink it. Besides, as she’s dreaming it, she feels her body respond, the stress and tension of the day turning to liquid heat. So sweet. Such utter relief. 

And that dream touch is so _skilled_. So attentive, and masterful. It’s on the insides of both of her thighs, stroking and finding the best spots, curling over the sensitive place just above her knee and to the inside and _squeezing_ , and even in the dream, she feels a sound hum in her throat, and spreads her legs wider. Already wet and open. 

And—she notices—everywhere the slickness lingers, everywhere that touch has been, her skin warms, a sensuous hum settling beneath it and spreading, golden light. As it spreads, she almost feels like she’s floating on it. Floating and humming. And at the same time, it makes her body feel slack, heavy; desire throbs low, pulsing even farther beneath it. Her skin almost aches, after long enough, for that touch to come back there again. 

And when it does, she almost gasps from the pleasure of it, wetness surging inside her, muscles clenching. Her skin is so much more sensitive; every brush sends pleasure arcing along her nerves. She’s gone almost boneless. 

And it’s just touching her thighs. 

Arousal is beginning to ache heavy higher between her legs. But she doesn’t think anything of it when, instead of sliding only a few inches higher to where she needs it, she feels a similar contact on her sides—slick and almost worshipful—and then sliding over her belly and hips. Circling around her wrists and ankles. It tightens, guiding her to spread her limbs. She lets it move her wherever it wants her, pulling her legs wider, a sweet torment as her swollen sex is exposed. 

The touch on her torso swirls everywhere, it seems: Her sides, her hips, her stomach. Every inch of skin starts to come alive, humming with blood flow, with pleasure. And— _Oh_. More of that touch, sliding higher, to curl over and around her breasts, squeezing gently, sliding over her nipples. 

The heat from that slick residue takes hold particularly intensely there, and her breasts feel exquisitely sensitive, nipples stiff and aching. That humming floating heaviness feels full and solid, in her breasts. So full they ache, low and throbbing and Abbie is biting her lip, core clenching and fluttering with every squeeze of her aching breasts. Her hips are squirming and rocking. But the tension at her wrists and ankles holds. All she can do is arch, roll her hips, rub against thin air. 

The touch seems to pay special attention to her nipples, too, enveloping them, rubbing over the sensitive tips. Each brush sends a hot electric surge right to her untouched clit, makes her cunt ache and swell. She shifts her hips, moaning in her dream, engorged lips sliding against each other with hardly a whisper of friction. She’s so open, inside, and so swollen outside. It feels like it shouldn’t be possible. 

The touch at her wrists and ankles... doesn’t stiffen; it’s too soft for that. But it _tightens_ , and whatever her mind has decided to imagine, it’s _strong_ , supple and deceptively soft. But it pulls tight, pulls her spread—pulls her still. 

She moans, tugging instinctively, helplessly, her body becoming feverish. 

That touch on her breasts tightens, too, somehow covering every inch of them, massaging gently. They feel almost hard, tight; the most real and tangible thing about her body apart from the ache between her legs. And her nipples feel outsized, so hard and engorged, so responsive to even the lightest touch. Something about the way the touch moves over them feels almost like suction, like a mouth and tongue but it never loses contact. A texture she’s never felt before, smooth and clinging. It tugs gently, slides over her stiffened nipples, alternating with a sinuous swirling around them. 

She’s trembling, she needs to be touched so badly. The pleasure is almost white-hot, now. 

This almost feels better than penetration. Held down, surrounded, attended to. Her whole body becoming one erogenous zone. But the arousal between her legs is a mounting throbbing _need_ that has her rolling her hips, whimpering. Even her hips and her belly ache, that hum settling deep under her skin. 

Finally, _finally_ , that touch rises higher than teasing at the joint of her thigh, sliding over her swollen lips. She moans. Arches, or tries to. She can’t move very well with that touch holding her gently but inexorably in place. Deftly, that touch parts her—if that’s an appropriate word to use when even her inner lips feel so engorged that they almost swell apart, leaving her open in the most profound way. Either way, that touch slides through her achingly swollen flesh, and she shudders with relief. It feels almost cool against the heat gathered there. 

The slickness of the touch settles into every fold and swell as it moves over her, and she _feels_ her arousal grow, her body respond, her vulva _ache_ and pulse in a way it never has before. 

Simultaneously— _god_ this could only happen in a dream—a surprisingly delicate touch finds her clit, encircles it, envelops it, traces the delicate swell of the root of it—taking her whole clit into it like a talented mouth, covering every bit of it. Circling and sucking. She nearly screams with the pleasure, nearly screams as that humming feeling fills the already-sensitive flesh there. And she could almost, _almost_ swear that she feels it swell, just a little, into that loving touch. That touch that settles on and around it completely, just like the touch at her nipples, almost massaging, pulsing, not quite sucking, with a level of dexterity and delicacy that she’s never even been able to give herself. She’s panting, now, shivering and shuddering and hips jerking. 

She’s completely soaked and she’s distantly aware that she’s _definitely_ leaving a wet spot on the sheets but _fuck_. She can’t care. Not when she feels this good. 

And then— _god_ —then it slides in. Easy as anything. Painting more of that incredible chemical on the most sensitive inner parts of her body, making them swell even more, making them even more sensitive. She arches, goes rigid, sounds leaving her throat. It’s not an orgasm but it’s not _not_ an orgasm, either. 

It’s so much better than any dream she’s ever had. The presence inside her is thick enough to clench on, to stretch her as it pulses and fills and swells, but with more give than she’s ever felt from a dildo or a flesh-and-blood dick. But it’s supple and strong and _moves inside her_ somehow. Something that might be a tip or an edge slides along her front wall, pressing gentle and inexorable, and she _does_ come, then, unmistakably, clit pulsing into the rocking sucking pressure on it, nipples peaked and aching into the touch on them, cunt clenching on the strangely soft and delicate feeling inside her that finds that _spot_ unerringly and rubs it. 

None of it lets up. She never fully comes down from the orgasm afterwards, her body too high. 

That presence inside her thickens, like it’s pressing more of itself into her. It stretches her, reaches deep inside her and _fucks_ her, and she can’t even cry out, even as another peak seizes her body. She clenches and gushes around the shape inside her, that seems to mold itself perfectly, seems to find the right shape that isn’t a _perfect_ mirror image of her, has ridges and bulges and rough spots in just the right places, and she can barely move, but every movement she can make is her fucking herself on that shape. 

And it rocks itself into her, too. Driven by some kind of disembodied force that she can’t perceive. Fucking her and rubbing against her front wall and rocking against her clit and sucking gently all around it, pulsing like with its own heartbeat. Massaging her heavy-aching breasts and incredibly swollen, hard nipples, sliding over the sensitive tips with a touch like silk that’s somehow better than a rough tongue. 

The shape inside her gets bigger, harder. Twitches in its own rhythm. The grip on her wrists and ankles grows tighter, the touch on her body more intense. 

A shudder runs through the shape inside her, and it grows even further, the ache of the stretch just another goad. Abbie comes around it again, again, working the whole length of that shape. It pulses inside her. 

Heat floods her core, and after a moment, there’s an ache in her belly, like something’s filling her up. The touch on her belly and hips becomes exquisite, sharper somehow. Pressure from within and without. It’s deliriously pleasurable, the feeling of floating and being so _full_. 

The shape inside her pulses, throbs; pauses, then floods again, and the pressure rises inside her belly, and she could swear she could feel her humming, pliant skin rise, belly distending slightly. Into that soft, reassuring touch, welcoming, exploring, feeling. 

It should ache; it does a little. But there’s something unbelievably hot about it, too. Her belly pushed out and heavy with her dream-lover’s release—pressing up and out and into that touch. It’s vulnerable and sensuous and makes something skid and spark deep inside her, wild. 

The presence inside her continues to throb and pulse, letting off one more immense, hard pulse inside her, one more even greater surge of pressure, and her belly rises into the soft welcoming touch on it, stretching. Abbie comes again, spasming around the feeling of being filled so full her body almost doesn’t know what to do with it, how to move with all of that inside her. The touch on her belly soothes. 

The shape stays there inside her, pulsing, fucking her gently and firmly, rubbing against all the spots it’s been touching. That gentle pressure at her clit stays too, and the touch at her breasts. The touch doesn’t retreat from any part of her. She rocks helplessly into the thickness fucking her, can’t stop or think about anything else. The muscles in her thighs and arms and hands and her everywhere tremble. Abbie floats on a river of fullness and pleasure—full _of_ pleasure, every inch of her, but especially in her breasts and deep inside her belly, where her body feels the tightest and fullest.

Two anchors, now, two places of fullness and pleasure so great it seems to stretch her body: Her breasts and her belly. Her breasts throb steadily, feeling heavier and heavier by the moment. Firmer against the touch that curls around them, massaging and squeezing. The flesh feels tight, now, stretched. Her nipples feel huge. 

Her belly feels tight, too, but it’s not quite the same. She’s so _full_ —the shape inside her, fucking her, the pressure of its release, the feeling coursing through her veins courtesy of its magic touch. And it _builds_ , her belly rising ever-so-gently into the touch that swirls over her navel and her hips. It’s intimate in a way a dream has no right to be, so gentle and safe and secure as that fullness inside her grows. 

It doesn’t seem to ever stop. And, Abbie doesn’t want it to. But at a certain point, her belly begins to feel _tight_ , the skin stretched. And she worries it might stop, or hurt. 

But that touch works patiently at her skin, sliding wonderingly over it, more of that slickness sinking in, and she doesn’t feel worryingly tight anymore, only full and thicker, heavier. Stretched in the best way— not just by the shape inside her cunt, but a the growing pressure and fullness in her belly. 

It could almost be a shape; something hard, maybe the size of a tennis ball. But it pushes everything outward, growing, and it’s hard to hold onto anything in the storm of pleasure that wracks Abbie’s body. That fullness spreads, touching everything in her core. Sets off a throbbing in her lower back, a spreading ache in her hips.

But more than anything, it swells outward. It pulls at her muscles strangely, making her normally flatter abdomen grow round, unable to pull back in. It rises, so full she feels the blanket draping over it. She can feel it growing, pushing against her insides, forcing her skin to stretch. It feels so _full_ , and the touch on her belly seems to love it. It rubs at her sides as they stretch, at the rapidly forming underside, at her firm and swelling navel, the increasingly broad swell of her belly. 

She _feels_ her skin stretch, now. Belly swelling outward, the only direction it has to go. She finds herself rocking against the shape in her cunt helplessly, biting her lip and whimpering and rocking with increasingly stiff hips, almost yearning for her belly to grow more into that touch, for her breasts to swell a little bit more. And they do, oh thank _god_. It feels almost too slow, but the tender writhing around her aching abdomen soothes itself against her distended, full belly lovingly, patiently. It feels patient. She can stand to be patient, too. 

That weight inside her grows, and her belly swells up, so much bigger than anything she’s ever felt before. It’s starting to get uncomfortable lying spread-eagle on her back, even as addicted as she is to the feeling of the front of her body grow, rising into the open air. 

That touch seems to sense it, and she’s not sure how she ends up on her side, still penetrated by that incredible talented touch, swelling breasts and belly still being touched and massaged lovingly. Still so unbelievably full, and getting even fuller. 

But she does, and she can almost feel the extent of the changes better on her side. And that’s when she realizes, through the haze of endless pleasure, what’s happened to her in the dream. 

She’s pregnant. She’s growing round and heavy into the soft strength of that touch. And that touch—possessive, perceptive, constant, like it can’t get enough. 

And fuck—neither can she. Maybe she should be panicking, but she can’t get enough. Can’t get _big_ enough. 

The touch seems to oblige, works gently at her skin, and her belly grows bigger still. 

On her side, she can feel her belly swell with every breath she takes, and sigh outward with every exhale. Feel the sheets sliding against her stretching skin, cool and soothing where that touch allows her belly to rest on the bed while it moves over other places. It’s _heavy_ , weighing down into the soft mattress. When she was moved to her side, the restraints at her wrist released, so she she’s able to reach one hand up to find her belly. 

She slides her hand over the expanse of it, feeling her sides rising and growing rounder even as she does. Whatever—whoever—it is in her dream that’s touching her moves for her, neatly avoiding her hand apart from a slick, glancing brush. It fluidly closes over the skin she’s passed by as she goes, still working, applying that magic liquid that’s letting her grow so big, so fast. 

Up and up, until her thumb brushes the incredibly firm swell of her breast. Her hand slides up and over that, too, and she has to bite her lip—her breast is far too big for her palm, for her entire hand even. The skin is tight, hot, delicate—but she can feel the weight of it just by touch, dense and full and heavy. The pleasure is incredible when she brushes her palm over her nipple. They _are_ huge; she traces the new, swollen shape of them, fingers coming away wet. 

Out, out along the curve of her belly. Oh, fuck. She finds the shape that was her belly button, resting her hand beneath it.

She thought she was just imagining how far her belly had swollen. That it felt bigger than it was. But she wasn’t, and it is; her arm isn’t fully extended to reach her navel, but it’s close. And as she rests her hand there, she feels herself swell even bigger, her skin stretching, the shape underneath it growing. Her hand is starting to feel pretty small against it, whatever fills her belly already verging on enormous. 

Beneath her skin, suddenly, she feels movement—the same agile, slick, faintly squirming movement as she feels inside her cunt, and outside on her breasts and belly. It writhes inside her, shapes sliding against her hand, sliding against the inside of her stretched womb, pressing on her insides, pressing on her nerves. Confined, cramped—even as huge as she’s grown, it’s not enough. Whatever is inside her is already bigger. 

She can’t help but come, muscles shuddering and contracting and spasming even as her belly inches out even further, sinks down heavier. She can’t reach the front of her belly, only rub at her drum-tight sides. She doesn’t think she could move even if she wanted to, now. 

She doesn’t. This feeling, being so full, so cared for, growing ever bigger—it’s the only thing she wants, all she can think about. 

She realizes with a pang that the dream will have to end, eventually. Waking up without this seems... jarring, a faraway memory. She smoothes her hand slowly over her achingly full belly, trying to memorize it: The expanse of taut skin that goes on farther than she can reach anymore, firm and hard and full, the immense _weight_ of it, the writhing feeling inside her, against her hand—

Wait. 

There is actually something writhing against her hand. Under her skin. Inside her belly, which... 

Abbie’s eyes open. 

Light filters in through the blinds on the windows. Nothing moves on her skin except her hand, but under her hand—

She doesn’t even have to look down, really. But she does. And she can see it, see everything: The remains of her pajamas, torn at the seams, the sleeves still clinging to her shoulders. She can _see_ her breasts, as heavy and full as they felt moments ago when she was asleep. Her body still hums faintly, and she can feel wetness thick and hot between her thighs, an aching swollen feeling in her cunt, _so_ much pressure on it. 

And her belly, obscenely big, bigger than it even felt, bulging huge and tight from her abdomen, across the bed in front of her. As she watches, that writhing sensation starts again, and shapes move under her skin. 

Not a foot. Not a hand. Nothing that seems even remotely human. 

In a cold gush of mixed horror and arousal, she comes again.


End file.
